We must leave the reader to imagine the scene at Mr.
Lennox's when the news of Frank's death was abruptly
brought by a messenger, and presently afterward, covered
with a military cloak, and borne by hired hands, the corpse,
drenched in gore. We shall not attempt to paint the guilty
horror, the conscience-stricken anguish of the father, as he
gazed on the result of his own lessons, the despair and sobs
of Mary and Fanny, and the wild shrieks of the mother,
who, tearing herself from the hands which would have withheld
her, rushed into the hall, met the body, and, after a
series of convulsions, fell at last into a swoon. She caught
but that one terrible look of the face of her son, who was
buried before she recovered from the delirium which succeeded
to her state of insensibility. In a week her life was
declared to be in danger, and her family waited to behold
her also sacrificed to the brutal error of the age. She continued
a long time in this dying state, her mental anguish
only rendered supportable, perhaps, by excessive bodily
suffering. At length the crisis passed, and she recovered,

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but so changed that even they who had previously been but
slightly acquainted could not behold her without surprise
and compassion. Her deep mourning struck their attention
less forcibly than the emaciated form, the pale countenance,
the ever-moistened eyes, the thin, quivering lips, and the
deep sighs which continually and unconsciously burst from
her bosom.

At length, thoughts less painful took possession of her.
She had herself wished, at a former period, that her son
might rather be brought back dead than a murderer. Perhaps
the great penalty of so young and noble a life might
be received as an expiation. Who shall put limits to the
mercy of God? Who attempt to fathom his judgments?
As week after week stole away, her excessive grief changed
more and more to profound melancholy, tempered by
pious resignation. She possessed the support of religion,
the inestimable consolation of prayer. In the train of these,
the merciful hand of Providence has scattered the silent but
heavenly blessings of fortitude, hope, submission, and tranquillity.
Even while sorrow ravaged her cheek, He who
watches over his own shed upon her heart a soothing repose,
and, after long imploring the power to do so, she was
at length enabled to say with sincerity, “Not my will, but
thine be done.”

Poor Mr. Lennox had no such consolation, and he began
to feel that he had not. The death of his son was by far
the heaviest shock he had ever suffered, and it taught him
at once the precarious nature of human felicity. He did
not know how to endure it, and he envied, while he could
not share, the holy peace of his wife. Grief had not only
shaken his health, but destroyed his spirits. That inexhaustible
flow of cheerfulness—it was at last at an end.
He never jested and rarely smiled. He became careless
in his dress and irregular and negligent in his habits. He
seldom dined out, or asked company to his own table; partook
of no pleasures or amusements of any kind, and showed
a particular disinclination to anything like business. He
was now fifty, and, even previous to the catastrophe which
had thus broken him down, from his general habits and
opinions, as well as his fortune, he had entertained ideas
of leisure and repose, natural enough to a person of his age
and character, after a life of confinement and occupation.
But the death of his son, with the attending circumstances,

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rendered him still less disposed to the toils and responsibilities
of the office, which he now rarely entered, committing
the whole business to the care of Emmerson.

Mary and Fanny were young, and youth recovers from
the stroke of sorrow in proportion to the keenness of its first
pangs. These two lovely girls, thus startled by an event
as shocking to their imaginations as to their affections, exhausted
their anguish in tears, and, while both had been too
faithfully attached ever to forget the loved lost one, the
thoughts of the present and the future naturally diverted
them, with time, from that gloomy and unalterable brooding
over the past—the destined doom of the bereaved parents.

The affair made a great noise in the city for a while;
indeed, it threw the whole country into an excitement.
Frank's sad fate was deplored publicly and privately. The
press honoured his memory with a burst of mournful admiration,
with very few comments on the immorality of the
manner in which he had met his fate. Several short poems
appeared in the journals, tendering sympathy to the afflicted
family, and then new events, new deaths, new actors and
opera, new dancers, new duels, and other nine days' wonders,
drove the incident from the public mind. Poor Frank, if
thought of at all, was remembered only as the “young officer
shot in a duel.”

Whatever might have been the opinion of that small portion
of men who really believe and endeavour to act up to
the principles of Christianity, the editors, the magistrates,
the public men, and leading characters of all classes, by no
means excluding women, gave few tokens of disapprobation
or of horror except at the accidental issue. It is fashionable
to point at the drunkard the finger of scorn, but the murderer
and the duellist, only by chance prevented from becoming
one, hears the murmur of interest, of admiration, and applause.

Emmerson watched the course of affairs with interest.
By some magical influence, his secret wishes seemed already
almost realized. Frank, Harry, and Seth were out
of his way. He had become the master spirit of the office,
and Mr. Lennox had already abandoned to him the general
control of his professional affairs. The fortune which had
been intended for Frank might now descend to Harry.
Miss Elton, with her large fortune, might be persuaded to
listen to him, now that Harry was not only away, but had

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left her with unconcealed indifference. So entirely had
Mr. Lennox been unfitted for business by the late misfortune,
that Mr. Emmerson was obliged to appear, not only as an
attorney, but in the new character (and one peculiarly his
ambition to assume) of counsellor and advocate, and he had
several times, in cases of interest, addressed the jury. Although
never great, he was always, on these occasions, respectable,
and it happened that various paragraphs appeared
in the newspapers, calling public attention to these cases, and
particularly mentioning the able and eloquent speeches of
Mr. Emmerson. These eulogies were sometimes accompanied
by intimations respecting the good fortune of Mr.
Lennox in having a partner so capable of supplying his
place, now that his health and mind were so seriously injured
by the late affecting family affliction. Who it was
that took such peculiar pains to acquaint the world with the
merits of Emmerson, must be left to the imagination of the
reader. It is not likely we should be able to get much proof
of it without spending more time than we are at present able
to spare, and probably not even then. It is, however, within
our power to state that, on several occasions, when
Mr. Lennox sent down stairs for the newspaper, it was
found to have been unaccountably mislaid, and that, by an
odd coincidence, each one of the said mislaid papers contained
a paragraph of this kind. Some of them, however,
Mr. Lennox could not but see. Far from being offended,
however, he was pleased at the compliments to his friend,
and took pains to advance him on all possible occasions.
He spoke of him enthusiastically to his clients, as a man
superior to himself in coolness and business habits. He
congratulated and complimented him on his essays as an
orator, delicately forced him forward, and loudly praised his
efforts. With feigned modesty and reluctance, but secret
triumph, Emmerson received these generous attentions.

“Yes, my dear fellow!” said Lennox to him one day,
“I am done—my heart is broken; I shall never be worth
anything again. You must, in some measure, supply my
place till Harry, poor boy, gets back. Let us have all ready
for him; you and he must take care of matters. There is
enough for both of you, and I want him to distinguish himself
as a lawyer, and, at the same time, keep him near us the
rest of our lives. Poor boy! poor boy! poor boy!” he continued,
his eyes filling with tears.

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“Has anything happened to him?” inquired Emmerson.

“No; we have not yet had a line from him, and it's two
months since he sailed. But I was thinking of—”

He rose and left the room.